


The Flame

by DancingHare



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 06:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13428342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingHare/pseuds/DancingHare
Summary: Sorelle celebrates the fire festival.





	The Flame

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published June 23, 2008

The flames were nice. They had always been her favorite. The arcane held immense power, and frost was undoubtedly useful, but in Sorelle’s mind there was nothing so compelling as the flickering dance of fire.

She crouched in the ruined courtyard, her skinny legs crossed beneath her dress as she sat atop a moss-covered pillar. How clever it was, she marveled, that they had an entire holiday devoted to the flames! They’d never had such a thing in Dalaran, at least that she could remember. Admittedly, she could not remember very much of those days, beyond the veil of the years and the fog of death.

The bonfire was heaped in the center of the ruined courtyard, a cheerful tent erected nearby. All manner of people had crowded around to admire it. The crowd held its breath as one as an orc, wearing a flamboyant tabard, dipped a lit torch into his mouth. They gasped and clapped enthusiastically as he drew it out again, the flame extinguished. A pair of elves twined sinuously around the ribbon pole, weaving around and through one another with an easy grace. Sorelle smiled inwardly, for she was incapable of doing so any longer. Even Nokjub seemed enthralled, perched saucily on her knee as he stared wide-eyed into the flames.

She wanted to get closer. Brushing the imp away, she stood and brushed the moss and leaves from her gown. There were so many people, but the flames were so pretty. Swallowing her fear, she stepped closer into the crowd. She extended a trembling hand toward it, when a voice made her gasp and draw back.

“You wish to honor the flame?” He was talking to her. Sorelle drew back guiltily, unsure what to say. Was she not supposed to touch it? The man’s eyes glimmered deep within his skull, in what must be amusement. He wore the same tabard that the fire-eater had. “Here you are, dear,” he said, pressing something into her palm.

Sorelle looked down to see two sticks of bark in her bony hand. She looked back at the man, uncomprehending.

“Incense,” he explained, gesturing to the bonfire beyond. “Throw it onto the flame.” His lips pulled back into a macabre grin.

She felt that everyone was looking at her. Awkwardly, she leaned forward and tossed the incense atop the pyre. They alit instantly, a bright flare of color and the bark’s sweet aroma lingered above the scent of the burning wood. Sorelle looked back to the man uncertainly, but he seemed pleased. So did the flames.

There were more flames, she was told, burning all through the lands. She wanted to see them too. They would be pleased if she visited, if she brought them an offering. It was too far to walk, she would have to ride. She disliked riding, in her life she had sat upon a horse perhaps twice. For a magi there were few occasions to do so. But she was not a magi anymore, not exactly. The summoners had taught her how to call a steed forth from the Nether, should she need one. Reluctantly, she brought the beast forth, the flames scorching the ground where it appeared. Flame wreathed its hooves and smoke poured from its nostrils with each breath. She did not like it very much, and she suspected the feeling was mutual. But the demon was bound to her will, and obediently broke into a gallop as she touched her heels to its smoke-colored sides.

Sorelle clung to the demon’s mane as they covered the ground swiftly, the cold air rushing past reminded her suddenly of the crypt. Far in the distance, she could see the smoke rising from another of the fires. She pulled the felsteed’s head around, steering it toward the fork in the road. It balked, snorting its protest. Sorelle sighed in frustration, kicking its sides to encourage it to move. She lifted her head, peering up the road. She could see nothing there.

“Stupid thing,” she muttered, reaching down to adjust the reins, maybe it was uncomfortable. Then she saw it, materializing through the heavy fog. A massive white cat loped toward them on the road, and though she could not clearly see its rider, she knew well enough that it was an elf. “GO!” she shouted to the felsteed, kicking it again with all of her strength. “Go go go!” Its ears twitched, and finally the demon sprang into motion, veering left away from the road into the muddy grass. She didn’t care, let it get dirty, let her get dirty. Sorelle’s heart was pounding; maybe it hadn’t seen them? But how could it not? A flaming demon horse was not exactly easy to miss.

They had galloped into a tunnel, the felsteed’s hoofbeats echoing loudly on the hard stone floor. Maybe they had escaped, she was afraid to turn and look back, maybe —

Something crashed into her from behind, sending her flying from the felsteed’s back. The demon, in self-preservation, never paused in its flight, continuing up the tunnel at a full gallop. Sorelle did not even have time to cry out, the elf was upon her before she could think to even do so, his sword slicing the air as he swung at her. Oh flames, please help me! She scrambled up onto her feet, shaking violently. She wasn’t sure if she could even remember the words for the spell. Sorelle channeled her fear into her fingers, sending him running away; it was enough time for her to call Kal’gore to her side. Though he was large and frightening-looking, she had never had reason to doubt his loyalty, and he appeared nearly instantly, as if he sensed her danger.

The blue demon rushed toward the elf, who had shaken off his fear and now ran toward her again. It bought Sorelle enough time to cast another spell, wreathing the furious elf in flame, another slowly corrupting his soul. If only she had time…

He seemed not to notice the demon at all, though Kal’gore’s claws clutched at him. The elf’s fury was reserved for her alone, and Sorelle was certain that she would die — again. Once more she begged the flame to help her, unleashing it onto her attacker. He cried out, crumpling onto the tunnel’s stone floor, the sword clattering noisily as he fell.

Sorelle felt sick. She didn’t want to look at the body, still flickering with flames. She scrambled to her feet, the fear still choking her throat as she started to run up the tunnel. The felsteed would not have gone far, probably waiting for her in the next valley. Kal’gore paused a moment before he glided silently after her, his claws still clutching at the air.

Now she owed the flames more than honor, she owed them a debt, and she meant to repay it.


End file.
